Bringing the Rain Home
by Chyme for the Rhyme
Summary: Alien fables have no real end. Just history, and a cyclic nature.


Once there was a woman who walked through fields before footprints had time to form. She breathed before each day began and mist gathered, swelling at the heave of her chest. Her fingers unfurled and water fell, designed to be caught by the blades of grass beneath her, before being cradled inside the smallness of dewdrops. In the early days we called them 'mercy of the goddess', which is how the syllables for water and forgiveness became intertwined, mixed in with the softer spokes of our language. We thought the woman gave plants their first taste of water, especially the ones choking on heat and dust the day before.

Now, however, I am not so sure.

* * *

The rain on Nourasia is not much different from the rain on earth, or so I am told. You can catch the water in your hands, feel it divide and splatter across your palms. Gather enough and you can swallow it down.

The sight of Eva though, always leaves my throat dry, desperate for some other kind of thirst.

Yes, I must call her Eva now, for that is her true name, short and sharp on my tongue and a breath-taking respite from all the other human words that clutter my head. It is different from 'Molly', the name I grew so fond of before. I do not know what that should signify, if it should signify anything at all, for in Nourasia, where we stuck fast to tradition in order to blind us to the power of the Crogs, change should be a fearful thing. But I do not find it to be so.

Her hair is longer now, smeared back by the downpour, with less red dye edging her scalp with fire. 'Dye' is what she calls it, a word I have tasted on my tongue and phrased back to her as a question.

She frowns, wrinkling back her nose with what Canan would be sure to say is distaste. I do not think so; honestly I think she is curious, as she so often is, a little bewildered by the differences between my culture and her own.

'Yeah, hair-dye? Don't you have it here? I mean, I've seen some fancy war-paint on the faces of some of your warriors, so why not on their hair too?'

'Hair is a sign of growth here,' I tell her. 'On earth, I understand it can be used as a decorative ornament or a statement to your personality. Here, it symbolises that one has lived a long life, the length reflecting the idea that one has passed through scrapes and misfortunate without needing to cut a single strand. Longer hair is particularly prized on our warriors; it means that no one has had the chance to cut it in a training exercise.' I motion to my own hair, feeling my lips curl up into something a little snide. I am sure my mother would reprimand me if she could see. 'As you can see I am not quite as good as you perhaps imagined.'

She raises an eyebrow at me.

'Good enough to save my life.' And in her eyes is a challenge, as if to say, _isn't that good enough?_

Well, I suppose there is wisdom to be found in such a thought. Although...

'That doesn't mean I shouldn't try to get better.'

'You'll get it. I have faith in you.'

She elbows me gently then looks a little sad as she does so. It makes me wonder whether she ever did the same with Jordan. Does she miss him?

A stupid question.

The universe has changed, fallen into different hands. Jordan is a god now, one who watches over both fate and stars with equal vigour. But gods cannot mix with people, not even ones who are royalty in heart, if not in blood.

I have always thought that highly of Eva, you see.

* * *

In our legends the woman who bestows mercy as water gets married to the fire that sweeps the land and causes drought. None of the legends ever say if she is happy with the match or even if the fire causes her pain as he ravages her, swirling over her body in crazed swirls of orange and yellow. He takes his fill of her, reaping her flesh with his heat until she is nothing but a skeletal black. Charred but brave, she painstaking continues her duty of giving water to the field before morning, but only when she is able. The drought her husband gives birth to makes it difficult, causing crops to crack and wilt at their very stems. Even in those difficult times, she sometimes manages to succeed, and when she does, it is a sure sign of the fire's impatience, of his need to move on and conquer new grasslands. It is a sign of spring or harvest, or whatever season is to follow the end of the drought.

The stories say that the woman poured out the water from her breasts, squeezed them as though wringing out a towel. But sometimes and more darkly, I wonder if she cut herself and let the plants sip at her blood.

* * *

'Aikka?' Eva says, tucking her hair behind her ear with a movement so brusque that I want to seize her hand and soften the gesture somehow. 'Why do you look so sad now? You're missing something, some kinda vitality that you had on Oban, on Alwas even.' She smirks. 'Don't tell me it was just the adrenalin.'

'No,' I say, so sharply that she flinches. 'I...this is a new world that my planet finds itself facing. A new future. The Crogs have lost much of their power. They are weary now that they know that the new Avatar is of human blood.' Eva winces and I try not to care. 'We were aligned with the Crogs, mostly to preserve ourselves. I understand that now in a way I did not at the time. Though I confess; the knowledge still rankles at me.'

'Aikka...'

There is sympathy in her voice, a touch of knowing. Though I am sure that Eva hides secrets in her name, in her reason for hiding it, I know that she understands sacrifice and compromise in a way many on my planet are unwilling to.

'And there are many still who do not want to accept that we must change. My father is not overly fond of humans. He views them with suspicion. The Crogs were outright with their hostility and brute force, and as strange as it may sound, there was something you could trust in that. What you saw, was mostly what you would receive. Humans, your leaders though, are a little more...tricky.'

She huffs, the long strands of her fringe flaring out from her breath. They move clumsily, coming back to slap against her skin with all the furious force that soaked things usually possess. It's strange, but I find myself enchanted with the movement, more so that had the hair simply drifted back gently along to the line of her forehead. Perhaps because it feels quick and rash, rather like her.

'Boy, don't I know it! You should see some of the stuff they come up with on TV! Err...' she breaks off, looking a little guilty at the puzzlement that I can feel crossing my face. 'You know, it's kinda like a holocaster, or a spell Satis used, when things that aren't happening here play out on some sort of screen, on an electric box. You know us humans and our addiction to technology, heh...yeeeah...'

She thrusts her fingers together, an awkward gesture that does nothing to stop her from fidgeting.

'Ah.' I feel my confusion lift. 'Yes, I am aware of the technology. Humans are not the first to harness the power of electricity, I'll have you know. Nor are you the first to design instruments that display the happenings of other events on them...and also, I believe, animation?'

She grins. 'Oh man, I wish I could make you watch a Disney movie. I bet I could get you to cry your eyes out.'

'Unlikely. You humans have a flare for drama that I sometimes find questionable.'

She takes one look at me and bursts out laughing.

'I'm sorry, what is so funny?'

'Nothing, just _you_ hating drama, Mr-I-hide-myself-within-a big- wide-shouldered-cape-like-a-viligtte-when-I-go-to-secret-meetings, oh, and-make-cryptic-warnings-when-kidnapping-girls-from-out-of-hammacks.' She stops abruptly and like paint unfurling across a page, a gentle pink rises up to dash her cheeks. 'Err; forget that last part, it's kind of embarrassing to remember...'

'Not one of my finest moments, I'll admit,' I say, a little sour.

She pats my arm gently. And I feel both pleased and displeased at the same time. If I were Jordan, I am certain I would receive a soft punch instead, something that could barely knock my stance. And I am unable to tell which is better, which gesture holds more...meaning.

'It's the thought that counts,' she says, quiet, deliberate steel threaded through her voice. 'Though I didn't appreciate the arrow to the face, the next day.'

* * *

It's strange isn't it, that in our legends the woman has no voice. No screams. No words to illustrate her position. Neither does the fire of course, but he crackles and scores the land with a black that kills. He burns down all that she works hard to provide for and that, Nourasia recognises, is a form of power that we will never wish to champion.

Perhaps that is why the woman is allowed a face, even if our stories allow her no words, while the fire has neither. It is _just_. Just that he possesses no Nourasian features. He is a being of swirling red and yellow in a contrast to the unwavering blue that shines through our spells and takes refuge in our eyes. I imagine that in our more fanciful moments, we ascribe this same colour to the water the woman pours down throughout the land, despite water having no true colour at all. Certainly I have heard the metaphor used before.

I always used to imagine a Nourasian as a stand-in for the woman, long ears cocked towards the grass, waiting for their roots to stir. I still do. But that does not prevent me from dreaming of Eva, of ascribing starlight and fire to her gaze.

I wonder, in my more guilt-ridden moments, if that makes me a form of traitor. Not to myself, for the heart is a fickle thing and there is no need to wrap it's motivations in lies. Especially when we have but a single life to untangle its fury and learn the truth; no. I wonder if I am betraying my culture, our shared memory of what we are and what we should always strive to be. We may look to the stars but never touch their fire.

The feeling always worsens, especially when Eva picks words that can _sear_.

* * *

'I promise to never shoot another arrow in your direction,' I tell her and this time, I am brave enough to reach for her hand. But then cowardice strikes my veins and I arrange my fist into a bump that jogs her wrist.

She stares at me.

'Don't make promises you can't keep. We have a bad history when it comes to things like that.'

'I brought you to this world, didn't I?'

She turns away, a half smile lighting up her face. It is like seeing the moon slip behind a cloud, something opalic and lovely hiding itself from view.

And she is right to point out our history, but wrong to think I have not learnt. I will not slice her open with a lie I wish were true. I will not promise to never hurt her. I may not turn my face away but some things will remain hidden, beneath the surface. And I do not think she has the skill to pluck them out.

'We managed to keep this promise intact, that's true,' she mutters, 'but...but Aikka.' She turns to me and I pick out the anguish in her eyes. 'It's only a matter of time, really, we both know it. Your father hates humans. Even if you are too kind to say it outright.'

They hated him first, I want to say, the prickle of anger running deep beneath my skin. Or at least they shunned him first. Magic is not something they were willing to accept as an equal to technology.

'We will not make war on your world. We do not strike unless provoked; that is the Nourasian way.'

Eva laughs. It is a very bitter sound.

'Sure. Okay. Because humans never provoke anything.'

'Even _if_ ,' I cut in, harsh, and trying to grab some of her stubbornness for myself. 'Even if our planets somehow clash, none of my arrows will reach you. And I will work hard to make sure no other Nourasian's does.'

She breathes. The starlight helps me to see the air unfurl out of her mouth, rain still glistening through the white. She is far too small to be a dragon, yet big enough, I think, to make me afraid.

'Thank you.'

* * *

Our stories have no real end. They are encouraged to grow this way, to disappoint children so that they can learn to make their own. So you see, there is no 'happy ending' as Eva would say, no real way to give the woman in our legend peace or wreck revenge upon the fire. Except in our own private imagination.

* * *

The rain stops and the moon unfolds from behind the cloud, bathing the land in silver. I see the smile come to life on her face. How could I forget? Beauty stirs her; I saw as much on Oban.

And let us admit it; I am not immune to a similar effect.

Daring, I wrap my hand around her own. Perhaps my promise makes me bold. Perhaps the desire to keep it steadies my blood, teaches me that reaching for starlight does not have to burn. Especially now, when I can finally see her smile widen.


End file.
